Sawed-Off Disappointment
by Jay Nice
Summary: "It's my first sawed-off. I made it myself." Dean's first sawed-off shotgun that he made in sixth-grade is a beauty. He can't wait to show it to his dad. Weechesters, pre-series. Kind of a tag to 3x03, Bad Day at Black Rock.


**This is based off of a tumblr post I saw on Pinterest, about Dean's first sawed-off he made in the sixth grade. Hope it turned out okay.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Winchester boys, or the plot. I just write the fiction.**

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_Oh, wow! It's my first sawed-off. I made it myself. Sixth_ grade...  
Dean Winchester, 3x03 Bad Day at Black Rock

The school day could _not_ go by any more slowly than it was at the moment. Dean laid his head down on his desk, keeping an eye fixated on the clock that seemed to be ticking in slow motion. His math teacher was going over review stuff, so Dean was bored out of his mind. He'd been placed in the idiot class at this school, and as easy as it was, Dean hated it. Sometimes it was too slow for even him, and he wasn't a genius like Sammy.

_Ten more minutes..._

Dean tapped his fingers to the rhythm of some Metallica song. He couldn't wait to get back home. He was working on building a gun, just like his dad used. Dad was on a hunt, and was due back any day now. Dean wanted to surprise him with his homemade sawed-off. So far, it was looking good and Dean was expecting it to function just as well as his dad's guns, if not better. He only had a bit left to add to it until it was complete, then he could show it to his dad. John would be so proud.

Dean sighed and closed his eyes as he rested his head. Most sixth-graders didn't know how to make guns. All they cared about were clothes and styles and who liked who. They didn't know half the things Dean did. With a faint smile, Dean imagined his dad coming home from the hunt unscathed and giving Dean a hug, ruffling his hair fondly with a "Good job, son."

He couldn't wait to show the finished gun to his dad.

_RIIING! _

His teacher spewed out homework instructions, but Dean was already out the door. He had to get over to the elementary school so he could pick up Sammy, who should be waiting for him at the playground now. The elementary school got out a good half hour before the middle school, so Dean had told him to play on the slides until he got out.

He jumped the fence that separated the campuses and made his way to the little kid playground that Sammy liked to play on. There he saw his floppy-haired little brother trying to scale the miniature climbing wall, only to fall flat on his bum. The kid didn't even flinch, as the floor was sand, and got up to try again. Dean smiled fondly.

"Heya, Sammy!" he called. Sam turned and Dean chuckled as he was tackled with sixty-pounds of energetic little brother.

"Dean!" he squealed, and Dean hugged him back. There might be a day when Sam will stop admiring his older brother, but that day would not come any time soon. "Dean, we learned about bugs today! Did you know that butterflies can taste with their feet?"

"No, that's really interesting-"

"And a bug's butt is called its abdomen!"

"I really could have gone my whole life without knowing that," Dean mumbled. "Come on, let's get home. You have homework?"

"Yup!" They started walking down the road towards their motel. "I have some science work to finish. And I got a new book at the library today! You'll help me on the hard stuff, won't you?"

"Course." Dean always helped Sam with his homework, but only because it was easy. He feared the day when Sam would need his help, but Den wouldn't beable to supply it. It was bound to come, and soon too. Every one of Sam's teachers at every school they went to commented about Sam's above average academic skills, and many of them even suggested that he try to test out of a grade. Dean was so proud of the kid.

The Impala wasn't parked in front of their motel room, not that Dean expected their father to be back yet. He guessed that was a good thing; he needed to finish his gun before his return.

When they got inside, Sammy went straight to his bed to do his bug homework or whatever, and Dean went to his sawed-off. He was just filing away any imperfections that may have occured. He wanted it to be perfect for his dad.

After he was completely done, Dean sat back and admired his work. It was _amazing_, if he did say so himself. He couldn't wait to see his dad's face when he saw it. He laid it on the kitchen table where he was sure his dad would see it before joining his brother on the threadbare couch.

He and Sammy ate Spaghetti-O's for dinner while watching some TV program that Dean wasn't paying attention to. It was almost time for Sammy to go to bed, and Dean figured he'd let him stay up a bit longer. His thoughts were elsewhere anyway, namely when his dad would get back. He didn't know why he was so worried. It may have been the fact that he was tackling an unknown monster this time, something that liquefied a person's insides. Gross.

Dean's worst fear was that someday his dad would be too slow and end up getting himself killed.

Dean shook his head, ridding his head of ugly visions. That would never happen. His dad was a super hero. He'd make sure to get home to his kids.

Sammy still didn't know about the monsters, thank goodness. Dean was doing all he could do to keep his baby brother from knowing what evil was in the world. However protected, Sam was getting more and more suspicious of their dad's job. He was seven years old and as sharp as a tac, so Dean was afraid for the day that he finally figured out why they laid salt everywhere and what all the guns were for.

That day would be hard, but Dean tried not to dwell on the thought. For now, he could relish in the innocence of his baby brother.

Suddenly, the door to their motel opened with a loud crash. Dean jumped up, hand on the knife he always kept by his side. But instead of a werewolf or a ghoul or a vampire, there was John Winchester, stumbling into the small room. Dean's eyes widened. It looked like John was hurt by the ragged way he was walking, but he could see no blood. "Sammy, I think you should go to bed," Dean whispered, gaze never leaving his father.

Sam shot him a puzzled look, but he din't say anything as he went into the other room where their bed was.

Dean started to reach forward to help his father, but then he smelled it. It wasn't the scent of blood, but that of whiskey.

Strong stuff too, by the look of it.

His dad was shuffling unsteadily towards the table, and all Dean could do was stand back and watch in anticipation. Drunk or not, his dad would be able to acknowledge the perfectly made sawed-off stitting in front of him, right?

Dean stood in silence. His dad was just _sitting_ there. Why wasn't he saying anything?

Visions from before of his dad ruffling his hair and showering him with praise filled his mind. He scolded himself for thinking something so foolish.

He cleared his throat. "Dad, I-"

"Juss' go t' bed," John slurred heavily, waving a hand in Dean's direction.

Dean swallowed and nodded. "Yes, sir," he curtly replied. He grabbed his gun off of the table, upset when his dad didn't even look at it. He blinked back angry tears as he went to his room. The gun was thrown under his bed, forgotten, and he proceded to tuck in an already sleeping Sammy in.

As he climbed into their shared bed, he reminded himself that he had better things to do than create guns. His real job was protecting Sammy. His dad had more important responsibilities than ruffling his hair and telling him he did good. As a single tear streamed down his face, Dean chided himself for ever thinking his dad would do that.

"Good job, Dean," he muttered sourly, before burying himself under blankets and falling into an uneasy sleep.

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**There was that, another one-shot that I just had to publish. Hope you enjoyed!**

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